


All I Want for Christmas…

by FadedSepia



Series: Clint Barton Bingo Lines [7]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Airvent Bucky Barnes, Bucky loves Christmas, Christmas Carols, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Cookies Implying Background Fratt, F/F, F/M, Going Overboard, How the Bake Friends and Gingerbread People, Human Disaster Clint Barton, I Made Myself Hungry Writing This, Nai's Right - It Probably Was Simone, Seasonal Stalkers, So Damn Much Gingerbread, Sweet Seasonal Stalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Summary: Clint Barton is many things:Spy, Avenger, Landlord.Guy who enjoys Christmasisn’t one he counts among his list of titles. Nor, until recently, wasguy who has a seasonal stalker.But now someone is heaping holiday cheer all over him, and Clint’s not sure what he’s going to do about it.A cutesy-wootsy Christmas fic for Nana_Evans for WinterHawk Wonderland 2019.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: Clint Barton Bingo Lines [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311593
Comments: 38
Kudos: 110
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo, Winterhawk Bingo, Winterhawk Wonderland





	All I Want for Christmas…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nana_Evans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_Evans/gifts).



> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **For Nana_Evans:** I did my best to stick to your prompts; I hope it makes you as happy to read as it made me happy to write.
> 
>  **Extra-special, Bourbon-flavoured Thanks To:** WeepingNaiad for beta-reading this in a single day. You rock my socks, Nai.
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_14 th December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint Barton is many things: _Spy, Avenger, Landlord, Disaster, Disappointment, Idiot._ That last one more than usual, given the events of the morning. Especially about this. Clint has eyes - better than most, and that’s him being humble - so he’s seen Bucky looking at him. Watches the other man glance in his direction and then quickly away. Notices the way Bucky seems eager to strike up conversations with him, or how the shorter man just happens to keep being on the range at the same time.

Now that he’s gotten back in control of himself, Bucky isn’t exactly subtle about his likes and dislikes. Even when he tries, there’s always a little something that leaks through around the edges. Clint is pretty sure Hydra muzzled him all those years because Barnes has the world’s shittiest poker-face, and Bucky doesn’t seem too _keen_ – as he might say – to temper his enthusiasm for whatever makes him happy. And – after the last few years – Clint can say that something high on the list of things Bucky likes is _Christmas._ Maybe it’s the novelty, or maybe it’s just the fact that Bucky spent so many years in a Hydra freezer like a holiday ham. Even if he is an introverted, amnesiac assassin, Barnes seems to _want_ to get into it.

Clint likes Bucky – maybe _like-likes_ him – and maybe Bucky feels the same, and maybe this holiday season could have been the perfect time to find out – what with the romantic songs, and the excuse to snuggle, and everyone hanging up poisonous parasitic kissing plants over doorways – but…

Clint Barton doesn’t really _do_ Christmas. It was pretty much the worst time of the year for him growing up, right up until he got picked up by SHIELD, so he doesn’t have the pleasant nostalgia filter over the whole thing. Sure, he’ll throw on some holiday clothes, most of which he got as gifts, but that’s more of a smokescreen than anything else. Clint maintains the minimum level of holiday cheer from Thanksgiving onwards; just enough to shut people up. If the holidays are supposed to be about family and togetherness, well, they don’t do much more but to remind Clint that this year – like so many before – he’s pretty much alone, and his only _family_ – at least in any legal or genetic sense – still kind of hates his guts. And also might want him dead, if someone’s willing to pay enough.

He’s got Nat, sure, but something went just different enough for the two of them that Natasha’s inner deprived child goes a little cuckoo this time of year. Clint’s pretty sure it’s because the holidays give her an excuse to break out of her cool persona and be an absolute dork; though he loves her enthusiasm, he just doesn’t share it.

Which is a shame because his own holiday humbuggery may have just screwed him out of the one thing he might have enjoyed this season. It started off innocuously enough with a single stupid conversation around the edge of a stall at the shooting range. Clint might be an idiot, but even he’s been noticing the man beside him noticing him. He isn’t surprised when Bucky leans around the edge of the wall between their booths, nodding down at his legs. “Nice pants. Festive.”

“I guess?” Clint shrugs beside him, voice dropping in time with his shoulders. The drunken reindeer pants were a gift from Phil, and he keeps them mostly out of an obligation. He couldn’t exactly turn down a Christmas gift from the guy that’s saved his life more than once.

“Yeah? Big plans, then?” Bucky’s smile is nervous as he asks.

“No.” Clint delivers his answer with a cold finality that even shocks him, and sets Bucky’s face dropping into something caught between a pout and a scowl before the shorter man turns away.

After a few moments, Barnes has tucked all of his pistols into his range bag. He slings it over his shoulder, turns on his heel, and walks off the range, leaving only a muttered _“Later”_ in his wake.

“I thought you were supposed to have good aim.” Natasha snatches up her Glocks, dropping them into their holsters as she pokes her head out into the hallway, presumably looking in the direction Bucky went. After a moment, she steps back onto the range proper, locking the door behind her.

Clint knows what’s coming. It’s not going to make his holiday any happier.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint’s headed back to his apartment after his _talk_ with Natasha – “He didn’t _know_ Clint.” – and really wishing he’d done what he did last year. Taking a SHIELD mission for the holiday would have freed up some other poor schmuck to go home and enjoy their holidays, something Clint doesn’t have to worry about. Sure, he can fake it for a while, and he genuinely _has_ enjoyed some of Stark’s Christmas parties over the years, but it’s just… Most of his friends know better than to try and drag Clint into the holiday spirit.

The keyword in that sentence, of course, is _‘most.’_ Most of the team knows because most of the team has known him for years, if not decades. Bucky is not _‘most.’_ Any guy that could go toe-to-toe with him would have to be way more than _most._ Though, Bucky isn’t just _any guy_ either, and now Clint’s probably blown what little chance he might have had at him ever being more. Which isn’t really doing anything to improve his whole outlook on the holiday.

Even if he _has_ screwed himself on that particular romantic front, Clint just has to hope he hasn’t pissed the guy off as badly as he upset ‘Tasha. Bucky Barnes isn’t the kind of guy Clint wants to cross.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_18 th December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint wakes up to the sounds of traffic, to a stiffness in his shoulders from too many hours shooting and a grogginess born of night-time caffeine withdrawal and breaking up four muggings. He shuffles toward his kitchen, skirting around the sofa, the coffee table and the Christmas tree, and leans against the counter beside his now hissing coffee maker. Coffee in hand, Clint flops onto his sofa next to the three-metre tree in the centre of his living room and stares. And stares, sips, and stares some more. When the cup is empty and the tree is still there – when Clint is fairly sure that it’s not a hallucination brought on by being exhausted or concussed – that’s when he starts to be concerned.

It’s eight days before Christmas, there is a tree in his living room, and Clint Barton knows _he_ didn’t put it there.

What he _doesn’t know_ is how the hell anyone got a fucking Christmas tree not only up four flights of stairs, but also into his apartment without him noticing.

Clint circles the tree, cautiously checking it for anything he can think of – listening devices, explosives, squirrels – but comes up empty aside from a post-it note, dangling from a tiny wire ornament hanger near the middle of the large fir tree. Three words are printed on it in neat block capitals.

_B ETTER NOT POUT._

He turns the little yellow square of paper over, reading the single line of instructions on the other side.

_L ET THE BRANCHES RELAX._

Clint gets it – he had Christmas trees as a kid to go with the overly spiked eggnog and the empty refrigerator – but he doesn’t _get_ it. He’s not sure he _likes_ it, either, but… it’s here, now.

Clint can just _ignore_ the ten-foot tree taking up residence in the middle of his apartment. Perfect solution.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_19 th December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

There’s nothing waiting for Clint when he wakes up and stumbles out of the darkness of his bedroom and into his kitchen. No surprises on the way to his coffee, no giant needle-covered plants crowding up his limited floor space. No unexpected anything as he preps for his day, pulls on his boots and his coat and heads out to sweep and shovel the stoop.

He passes Simone in the stairwell – his tenant heading up while he’s heading down – and she waves to him with a smile. “Little late, but you really went all out this year; that was so nice of you. They look good.”

“Uh, yeah…” Clint nods and tries to hide his confusion. He hefts his shovel and heads out the front door. There isn’t a lot of snow coming down now – only a few flakes – but there is a fresh holly wreath hanging on the front door of the apartment building. And another on the back door. And, now that he looks up, there are tiny wreaths on each and every one of Clint’s fourth story windows.

Hung on the _outside_.

Forty feet off the ground.

Clint finishes salting the steps and runs back up to find a matching wreath not only on his own door, but on every apartment door in the building. And on the door to the laundry room. And hung in the back of the elevator. Clint trudges back to his own door. In the centre of his own wreath sits another note, message written out in the same block letters.

_H AVE A HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS._

Clint calls Peter. He calls Doreen. He calls Tony and Matt and Wade-fuckitty-Wilson. Clint calls anyone he can think of with a habit of hanging out on or off of roofs that might have an axe to grind, but – if any of them did it – nobody’s copping to it.

He wants to take them down – Clint doesn’t _do_ wreaths and garlands and all that shit – but… it does look kind of pretty. Simone likes it, so the other tenants probably will, too, and they’ll _definitely_ ask questions if he goes around taking them down. There’s no point in causing a panic; nobody has to know Clint _didn’t_ do it. Plus, does he really want to hang off the edge of his roof to take the other wreaths _down_ if he doesn’t _have_ to?

The answer to that is no; no he doesn’t. Clint doesn’t _like_ it, he doesn’t _want_ to like it, but he can’t deny that there’s something pleasant about the little wreaths on the other side of his living room windows, green and dusted with snow.

It’s _fine…_

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_20 th December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint does a full sweep of the apartment inside and out, but nothing is out of place. No additions or subtractions anywhere that he can find. Not even in the back of the elevator. Clint actually manages to leave his apartment without any surprises; a good thing, too, since he _has_ to leave his apartment to get a few last minute errands done. Clint wants to clear them off his plate before the new year. What would the holiday season be without his annual run-in with the Bratva and a few bruised ribs, right? Right.

Clint doesn’t _want_ to get the snot beaten out of him – today, or ever – but it’s _awfully_ easy to skip last minute holiday invitations if he’s recovering from a rough fight or three. Of course, that also means missing out on the free holiday party food. He might not want to stand around in an ugly sweater and fake the whole festive vibe, but fights always leave him hungry, and Clint can put away some Christmas cookies when he wants to. Or that one-pan apple crumble that Sam makes. _Oh, yeah_ , that would be great right now.

Clint leans his battered body heavily against his door frame and wishes he had thought to pick up something on the way home. He trips through his front door and makes a beeline for the refrigerator, snagging out a bag of frozen peas from the freezer to press against his ribs. They feel so _nice_ on his bruises; plus, they’ll be a decent snack once they’re thawed. Maybe he can dig something out of the fridge and make a meal. Clint swings open his refrigerator door, glancing at the meagre groceries inside: a few beers; a limp carrot; a two-foot tall gingerbread house model of his apartment, complete with a marzipan Hawkeye on the roof.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

This. Is. _Bullshit!_

Someone has been not just in his apartment, or his kitchen, but in his god-damned refrigerator! Someone without a key because _nobody_ except Natasha has one, and she sure as shit can’t make gingerbread. Someone with a frighteningly large amount of free time, given that the house is detailed right down to its little gingerbread brickwork. Someone who probably has no idea how happy Clint is to see something soft and sugar-filled after the night he’s had.

It’s probably poison. The slow-acting kind that he won’t know about until it’s too late. It’s definitely creepy. The fucking obvious kind that should set off all of his alarm bells and send him running out of the apartment. It’s absolutely delicious. The gingerbread is the soft kind, and the trim moulding is real marzipan, and it’s all held together with almond buttercream icing.

Clint pops off one of the hard-candy wreaths from the side of a tiny window, crunching on it as he reads the note stuck to the glass refrigerator shelf.

_F ROSTED WINDOWPANES._

Literally _frosted._ Clint chuckles, pries off part of the stoop, and goes to make some coffee to dunk his stairs in. Yeah, it might kill him, but, _shit,_ does it ever taste good…

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_21 st December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

The lights and ornaments are just something he’ll have to get used to, along with more visits from the Christmas elf from hell. Clint wasn’t even asleep for five whole hours, but his holiday harasser has managed to sneak into his apartment, hang glass baubles on his tree, and even string lights; on the tree, and over the doors. They’re all hooked in to a timer system, and – right in the middle of his coffee table – Clint finds a remote control with functions that make the lights blink and twinkle and chase across the wires. Next to it, yet another note.

_L IGHTS TO DAZZLE._

The bulbs are retro-revival, LEDs that look like the fat old C7 bulbs he remembers wanting as a kid. They’re coloured, too, white and purple; looking closely, Clint can tell that the purple ones were painted. By _hand_ , judging from the brush strokes.

Clint’s not sure whether that’s endearing or unnerving. On one hand, someone took the time to hand paint every other bulb his favourite colour. On the _other_ hand, _someone_ took the time to _hand paint_ every other bulb _his favourite colour._ Beyond the whole breaking and entering thing – something to which he’s sadly growing accustomed after just a few days – that level of work borders on obsession. Which, again, might be sweet. If the gesture wasn’t coming from a potential stalker who seems to have unfettered access to his residence.

Clint pulls out his phone, tapping out a quick message to Natasha, not really sure of what else to do except sigh and eat more of his gingerbread apartment.

 _ **HawkGuy  
**_[ _You wouldn’t know anything about this?_ ]

He attaches a picture of the tree, along with a confused face and a bunch of interobang emojis.

Natasha answers a few minutes later.

 _ **ArachNat  
**_[ _Festive! Proud of you; saw the wreaths._ ]

Crap. ‘Tasha likes it, too. He _can’t_ take it down now. Whoever this elf is, they might have just gotten him out of one of her holiday interventions – might have just done Clint a _favour_ – but still. _Still!_

He contents himself with a large chunk of the east wall, breaking the gingerbread into squares and tossing it on a plate, then sitting on his counter-top. Clint drinks his coffee, eats his gingerbread, and runs through all the functions of his new Christmas lights. He settles on a slow twinkle, dimming the strung lights and leaving those in his apartment off for the day. It’s calming; the warm light and the smells of fresh coffee and re-heated gingerbread. Clint can see why people enjoy it. Why so many folks seem to look forward to the holiday, if this is the kind of image it brings up in their heads.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_22 nd December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint is naming his tree Bruce the Murder Spruce. He knows it's a Fraser Fir, but still, he can't help it now, not with the tree further decked out as it is. The obvious additions are the knives. At least two dozen of the small throwing ones Clint’s always begging off of ‘Tasha are suspended from loops of purple and silver ribbon; they’re interspersed with the glass balls, honed blades glinting in the twinkling lights. Whoever decorated Bruce has access to some high quality equipment, and a direct connection to the little murderous magpie in Clint's brain bent on collecting all things cool and deadly. His stalker even got sheaths for all the blades, which are laid around Bruce’s base.

Clint has been asking after a set of those knives for months, but sourcing weaponry is difficult when you might have accidentally offed the manufacturer. Natasha had said she couldn’t even find them second hand, yet here they are. Beyond the blades are other gifts as well. Two new sets of practice shafts, laid end to end across the branches, encircle the tree like thin purple garland. The pieces of a honing kit are interspersed throughout the evergreen, along with five boxes of butterfly bandages. And, just like in those classic Christmas pictures, there’s actually food hanging off of Bruce, too. Purple candy canes - grape flavour because that is a must - and tiny gingerbread cookies painted like targets tip the ends of the branches, along with actual-factual popcorn garland. A new set of reinforced combat gloves sit atop the whole thing, tip-less fingers splayed to radiate outward; a black leather star to top off the tree. Stuck in the outward facing palm of one glove is a single post-it note; it features a short verse from yet another Christmas song.

_P RESENTS ON THE TREE._

That’s the original verse – the _classic_ one – though a lot of people sing it with _under_ now; presents _under_ the tree, not _on._ Clint isn’t sure why that sticks in his brain for a second, but now the song is running on a loop, setting him humming. Almost like he’s enjoying himself.

Which he isn’t.

Really, not the least little bit.

He might be walking one of his new knives across his fingers, humming _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ as he nibbles a gingerbread door, but Clint is _not_ enjoying it…

… _much._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_23 rd December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint is back on the range today. He's been avoiding going back since he snapped at Bucky, but now he's also avoiding his apartment, and there isn't any place else he likes to be in the tower besides on the range or on the roof; both locations he's likely to run into Barnes. But now they’re both here, so the least he can do is try to apologize.

Clint runs his fingers through his hair, settling his hand at the back of his neck as he shrugs. “So… look, about last week-”

“No, I understand.” Bucky cuts him off with a sharp nod, already starting to pack away his pistols. He isn’t even making eye-contact as he puts everything back into his range bag. “Natalia set me right, so I get it, but – uh – maybe things’ll get better? Took me a while, too, so…”

“Yeah, yeah maybe.” Maybe _next_ year; definitely not _this_ one. The Christmases of Clint’s past might have been violent or pathetic, but they were at least predictable. This year is running on random thanks to the Ghost of Christmas Cheer, and Clint isn't sure how much more he can take. “Kind of surprised you’re so into it.”

“It’s different from what I remember, which ain’t all that much, but it’s just nice. The food an' the lights an,’” Clint doesn't think he's imagining a bit more colour creeping into Bucky’s cheeks right now, “an’ the people. Spending time with folks you care about an’ all that. Course, I’m workin’ part of the holiday, so…”

“What?” Bucky is _working?_

“Eh, it's um…” Barnes hefts his bag up onto his shoulder with a shy smile. “Ya know… for a good cause?”

Clint knows alright. He isn’t quite sure how Bucky managed to get an assignment when Phil told him there wasn’t anything going on, though. The one year Clint _doesn’t_ have work, and one of the few people he might actually _want_ to see over the holiday has a job. “Yeah?”

“Spreading some cheer to the deserving.”

Clint might not want to do the stuff himself, but he does kind of like seeing the surprise on other people's faces, the joy when they get something they want. “Do you need any help? Backup, maybe?”

“No.” Barnes’ ears are tinged pink, which is especially noticeable when he tucks his hair back behind them like that. “No, I got it.” Bucky shakes his head, hefting his range bag a bit higher as he walks out the door.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint is more than a little disappointed that Bucky is busy. He’d hoped to have the chance to make up for biting the guy’s head off, but he isn't surprised to have gotten the brush off. He stays long enough to fire off a few dozen shots, but his heart’s not in it. If he’s going to be depressed about a shitty holiday, he might as well go back to his apartment. Clint packs up his bow and quiver, staying barely a half-hour before he’s shuffling back to Bed-Stuy. There’s gingerbread in his refrigerator; that will make him feel a little better.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

There is gingerbread in his refrigerator, yes. There is also gingerbread on his counter. _All over_ his counter; covering it, aside from the spot occupied by an insulated carafe and a cup of cocoa, given the warm chocolatey smell in the air.

Clint cautiously inspects the cup.

The cocoa inside it is still steaming. The marshmallows haven’t even _dissolved_ yet. The expected post-it note is stuck to the side of the mug.

_I T’S A MARSHMALLOW WORLD._

For the moment, Clint can’t do much more but stare down at the mug. His apartment isn’t _that_ warm, so it must have been poured pretty recently. Either his stalker has impeccable, inhumanly accurate timing, or they _knew_ that Clint was on his way home. Magic or very careful surveillance; neither of which is something Clint is equipped – physically or mentally – to handle right now. Nothing that’s been left in the apartment has killed him yet, so he might as well.

Clint picks up the mug, sipping his cocoa and surveying the newest batch of gingerbread cookies, this time gingerbread people. They’re gingerbread _Avengers_ , actually, each recognizable in their frosted uniforms; tiny piped details and candy button eyes. Clint thinks they’re almost too cute to eat. He tips a splash of coffee into the cocoa – it’s a touch too sweet otherwise – and carefully considers who among little cookie people laid out on the parchment across his counter he can eat.

Biting Barnes’ head off would certainly cause fewer issues in cookie form than it did in real life, but Clint opts for drowning Ironman in his coffee instead. It’s easier when it’s only that straight line robot face, not a smiling, silver-sugar armed Bucky. Clint can’t eat him, nor would he think of chomping down on Nat or Sam. Bruce maybe? Clint slides the green _Hulk_ cookie to the left, along with _Ant-Man_ and _Dr. Strange_ and _DareDevil_. Actually, Matt is more annoying than Tony; Clint probably should have eaten him first. Not the _Punisher_ , though; he likes Frank. Clint sorts his cookies into _eat_ and _don’t eat_ piles. The _eat_ cookies go onto a plate next to the half disassembled gingerbread house, ready to meet their coffee-dunked fate. Most of the _don’t eats_ get traded out for cookie targets, taking their place nestled into the tree.

 _Spiderman_ is at the top, of course, with _Falcon_ perched a little further down. Clint positions _Scarlet Witch_ in a circle of lights that reflect shimmers on the red candy coating of her tiny cookie hands. _Black Widow_ gets a prime spot beside one of the knives, while he tucks _Captain American_ in beside her. _Perfect._

Clint thinks about doing the same for the _Hawkeye_ and _Winter Soldier_ cookies, but that’s just wishful thinking. Fuck it, no reason not to, right? Clint puts the two cookies side by side above a target, then goes back for another cup of cocoa and the lower half of cookie _Scott Lang_.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄  
_24 th December  
_❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

With the lid having been screwed on tightly, the cocoa is still warmish when Clint wakes up, so he pours the rest of it into the morning’s coffee. Christmas Eve is the only day he really _does_ anything for the holiday, and that’s just because Natasha will be coming by with his sweater. Hopefully it will fit this year. Clint rubs his thumb over the hem of _last year’s sweater,_ which hit him three inches above the waist _before_ he accidentally ran it through the dryer. Oh well; he’s got good abs, and ‘Tasha will just be glad he’s wearing pants.

Clint selects a few cookies – two targets, a portion of the second floor, and half of the Hulk – and sits down to enjoy the morning. The tree really _is_ very nice to look at, and the snow over the past few days has settled into the bottoms of all his window wreaths, frosting the glossy deep green leaves. It’s homey, almost cosy, if still a little lonely. Clint’s contemplating inviting Simone and her kids over for cookies, and halfway through biting off Hulk’s head, when there’s a brisk knocking on his door.

Natasha’s face is almost worth the hassle of the last week. “You… _actually_ decorated? _Inside?”_

“Nope.” Clint takes her coat, hanging it in the closet, but offering no further answer. It’s rare to see ‘Tasha confused like this.

“Nope?”

“Nope.” He smiles back at her, letting her hang a little longer before finally giving Natasha a reprieve. _“I_ didn’t do anything. Blame the Ghost of Christmas Cheer. Who I am really hoping is you because this is getting out of hand, ‘Tasha.”

Natasha tips her chin toward one of the gingerbread targets, eyes curious. “Edible?”

“Yeah. Really good, actually.”

She snags one off the tree, snapping it in quarters and popping a piece into her mouth. Natasha smiles around the sugary mouthful, finishing the cookie before she answers him. “Then not me; you know I don’t bake.”

It’s true. Natasha doesn’t bake. When it comes to cooking, his partner’s speciality is making reservations. Or lighting things on fire; he’s pretty sure she once managed to burn the water trying to make pasta.

“I brought your sweater.” She presses the squishy package into his arms, freed hands immediately reaching for another few target cookies before she settles onto his sofa.

“Thanks, Nat.” Clint hides his trepidation and sits next to her. Under her expectant, sugar-fueled gaze, he starts unwrapping it. He already knows what it is; a hand-knitted sweater, just like last year, and the year before that. He also knows that – try as she might – Natasha knits only slightly better than she bakes; Clint will count himself lucky if he can distinguish which end of the sweater is the top, but he’ll wear it anyway.

He lifts the knitted bundle, shaking it out to take a look at it before the inevitable fitting. It’s purple – it’s _always_ purple, but that’s never a problem – with some grey around the hem and cuffs. Natasha tried to knit a target out of cabled stitches near _-ish_ to the centre; it’s mostly round, and it’s at least recognizable. Clint yanks off his previous year’s sweater and pulls on the newer one. To his shock, it _fits_ like a _real_ shirt. It has sleeves, and a neckline that _actually_ goes over his head, and Clint can breathe in it without feeling like he stole one of Steve’s teeny-tiny t-shirts. It’s not perfect – one sleeve is shorter than the other, and it hangs down to his knees, looking more like an old-fashioned nightshirt than a sweater – but it _does_ fit, and it’s quite toasty.

Clint isn’t sure what to say. He opts for giving Natasha a hug.

“You like it?”

“I can _wear_ it.” He deserves the swat she takes at his head, but ‘Tasha’s smiling, so maybe she’s not too mad about it.

Though, now her smile is taking on a conspiratory edge. She’s leaning back, arms crossed over her chest as she looks up at him. “So, about tomorrow…?”

Clint feels his stomach drop, and it must show on his face because Natasha’s hands are already raised as she cuts him off before he can start.

“I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out first.” Her hand settles on his leg, patting gently. “It’s nothing big. Me, Steve, maybe Buck-”

“Barnes says he’s working over Christmas.” Clint _might_ have said yes, otherwise, if only to give Bucky an out while Steve and Nat make goo eyes at each other all day. He, however, is not willing to play third wheel, especially when he could stay home with his tree and his cookies and his seasonal stalker. “I appreciate the offer, but you should enjoy your date.”

Natasha isn’t happy about it, but she perks up a little bit when he shoos her off with her own gift – a pair of stiletto-stilettos that he caught her admiring the last time they were undercover – and the _Cap_ and _Black Widow_ gingerbread people. That mollifies her, even if she’s still pouting as he walks her back down and waits with her for a cab. He sees her off with a last hug and the promise to call if he wants company, then dusts off the snow and walks back up to his apartment.

Clint knows he can’t have been outside more than twenty minutes, tops. Even adding in trips up and down the stairs, he was gone from the apartment for, at most, thirty minutes. It shouldn’t have been enough time for _anyone_ to do _anything_ , not here, not right under his nose.

And yet, _someone has._

Who-the-fuck-ever this is must be near-literally sitting on his apartment, to get in and out of here _that_ quickly, and to leave something behind. There’s a package under his tree. It’s not much, not nearly so big as the other things his stalker has left. In fact, Clint might have missed it, but he’s Hawkeye for a reason, and he spots the flat little box tucked under the branches of Bruce’s base. It’s wrapped in simple silver paper, tied with a purple bow. There is a post-it note on it, as expected, with yet another little block printed note.

_S O NICE AND WARM._

Clint lifts the sticky-note, turning it over to read the carefully lettered words on the back.

_O PEN BEFORE CHRISTMAS._

It’s not the usual sort of instruction. Clint follows it anyway.

Opening the box reveals carefully folded tissue paper wrapped around a chunky pair of knitted purple socks that are a close match for his new sweater. After a more thorough inspection, Clint concludes that they are a _perfect_ match. There’s even the same grey accent yarn on the turned heel and cuff. The stitches are better though – evenly spaced and without drops – and both socks match. His gift-giving-gremlin is definitely _not_ Natasha, then.

Whoever they are, Clint’s stalker is fast, thorough, and probably armed to the teeth… but also a damn good knitter, on top of making fucking delicious cookies. The socks fit _perfectly_. They’re double knitted, making them extra thick, and so freakin’ warm. Clint wiggles his toes inside them with a resigned smile. It’s sweet; creepy as all fucking hell, but sweet.

However. _How-ev-er._ There is the little matter of his seasonal stalker having had to follow his partner to figure out the _exact_ yarn she used. Clint knows ‘Tasha. She probably bought this back in August, and she sure as hell doesn’t make stitches _this_ neat. _That_ right there means this isn’t just a funny prank, or even a frightening one. This stalker isn’t just a potential threat to _him,_ not anymore, and that means Clint has to put a stop to this whole thing as soon as possible.

Clint can’t be sure his gifting-gremlin isn’t still watching, but there are things he can do to prepare for their return. They’ll be back; he’s sure of it. As Clint putters around his apartment – munching on some cookie brickwork while surreptitiously preparing for his somewhat unwanted company – he finds himself humming. The tune keeps twisting around in his head as he repositions the tree, fiddles a bit with the lights, removes a few ornaments, and eats another cookie.

He finishes off _DareDevil_ and _The Punisher_ – because he couldn’t just _leave_ Frank alone on the plate – and steps back to survey his work with an accomplished smile. Clint’s never waited up for Santa Claus, but he’s waiting up tonight.

**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**  
_25 th December  
_**❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**

Clint’s pretzeled himself into an upper storage cabinet to wait, new knives at the ready, collapsing compound bow at his side. Bruce has been adjusted to offer him some visual camouflage, and he’s got the remote for his partially rehung lights tucked into his pyjama pants. He’s been awake for hours, but – between the gingerbread and the leftover marshmallows – there’s enough sugar coursing through his veins that he’s not sure he’ll need to sleep until next year.

It’s just past three in the morning when Clint hears the barest of sounds from his kitchen, like someone shuffling along the floor. After a moment, he realizes it’s coming from the air vent above his stove. The metal grating swings down. Clint sees an arm, hears a muttered curse, and slams his finger onto the remote for the lights, setting the whole apartment blinking like mad and startling whoever it is into shouting. Clint is on them, thrown knife pinning their sleeve to the wall. He has his bow trained upward as they dangle, flipping on the kitchen lights with his elbow, staring upwards at, “Bucky?!”

Hanging partway out of the tiny air vent, upside down with his right arm pinned by a knife to the drywall, clutching a bundle of ribbon-tied leaves and looking completely shell shocked is James Buchanan Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier, aka, “You're the Evil Elf on the Shelf?!”

Bucky’s hair is half in his face and his eyes are wide as he blinks, half-out of the vent over Clint’s stove. He’s upside down, but has only been that way for a few seconds, so the blush creeping up – or is it _down?_ – his face is something more than that. Bucky coughs, cutting his eyes away as he nods toward the small knife piercing the cuff of his lumpy grey sweater. “More like the, uh… Bucky who is stuck _-y_? Little help?”

“You want me to help you break into my apartment? _Again?”_ Clint sets the bow down, stepping closer. He’s not quite nose-to-nose with the other man as he asks. “How did you even fit in there?”

“I _want_ not to be trapped in the god-damned air vent.” Bucky wriggles forward a little, getting the rest of his torso out, but no more. “And is that really important right now?”

Clint leans away, perched on the counter behind him. He reaches for one of the last survivors of the gingerbread plate – cookie _Pietro knows_ what he did – and munches in silence. Bucky could get himself down, but it would mean releasing his grip on that tiny festooned shrubbery lump he’s holding, or further damaging his knitted gift, and he doesn’t seem too eager to do either.

After a long silence, Bucky huffs out, “I’m actually a lot smaller without the arm, alright? Wouldn’t’a been a problem if Romanov didn’t knit bulky sweaters.”

Considering he’s wedged in at the _hips_ , Clint isn’t sure the sweater is Bucky’s problem. Still, he can give the guy a reprieve; it might get him some answers. Clint reaches up to unpin Bucky’s arm, but snags the greenery he’s holding away from him. “What’s with the fancy salad?”

“Nothin.’”

A foot-wide bundle of berry-filled smooch-weed is not _nothing._ There’s enough here to cover every doorway and window in the place, and still have some left over. “You were going to fill my apartment with mistletoe?”

Bucky’s wriggled further out, enough that Clint can see the empty half sleeve dangling where his left arm should be. Barnes is back to not looking at him, eyes cast downward to look up at the ceiling, ears nearly as red as the lopsided star across the front of his chunky sweater. “Might’ve considered it.”

“Why though?” That sounds a little too dense, even coming from Clint. Plus it doesn’t cover the whole gamut of all the things he now knows were Bucky’s doing. “Why all the lights and the stuff?” Clint snatches a target up off the cookie plate, waving it in Bucky’s direction. “Why all the cookies?”

“I, um… I kinda got a sweet tooth?” Bucky nods sheepishly, voice wavering and nervous. “And it seemed like what you needed most were some, uh, some good memories for the holidays?”

“So the point wasn’t making me paranoid?”

“No…” Blue eyes drop cautiously to meet Clint’s own. “I just figured you could use a gift that didn’t come from a box.”

Bucky’s done so much. Painting the lights. Putting up the wreathes. Probably pulling the knives out of his own stash and knitting not one but _a pair_ of socks. He might not have done it in a way most other people would’ve – might have scared the shit out of Clint more than once over the last week – but Bucky’s managed to at least make Clint’s Christmas interesting; nigh on _enjoyable._

Clint _knows_ that Bucky likes Christmas, but by the effort he’s put into getting Clint into the spirit of the season, it seems pretty obvious that Bucky might _like_ him, as well. Maybe even _like-like._ Clint is picking through the mistletoe – feeling more than a little nervous himself, biting into his lower lip and trying to figure out what it all means – when his fingers brush a small yellow square of paper. It’s tied to a single berry-filled sprig of mistletoe, looped in a red ribbon bow, the note written in what he now knows is Bucky’s neat printing.

He can feel his own face flushing as he reads the five words printed on the small slip of paper. Clint looks up at Bucky, still dangling, wedged in his vent, then back at the note. Back up to Bucky. Back down to the note. The lyrics he recognizes; they’re from a pretty popular song. They’re also fairly succinct instructions. Clint chuckles, leaning in close enough that he and Bucky are just about eye to eye. “So… Guess I should follow the advice?”

“Couldn’t hurt?”

 _No_ , Clint thinks, _it couldn’t._ His seasonal stalker hasn’t steered him wrong so far, so he might as well. Clint lifts the mistletoe up in one hand, going up on tiptoe to kiss Bucky properly, if still upside down.

The post-it slips from Clint’s hand, taking the last of the Christmas song lyrics with it as it flutters to the floor.

_M AKE MY WISH COME TRUE._

**❄ • ❄ • ❄**

**Author's Note:**

> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> The Christmas songs Bucky referenced, in order, were:  
>  _B ETTER NOT POUT – Santa Claus is Coming to Town  
>  HAVE A HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS – Holly Jolly Christmas  
>  FROSTED WINDOWPANES – The Christmas Song  
>  LIGHTS TO DAZZLE – The World That She Sees  
>  PRESENTS ON THE TREE – I’ll Be Home For Christmas  
>  IT’S A MARSHMALLOW WORLD – Marshmallow World  
>  SO NICE AND WARM – Baby It’s Cold Outside  
>  MAKE MY WISH COME TRUE – All I Want for Christmas is You_
> 
>  _All I Want for Christmas is You_ was also the song from which I pulled the title of this story.
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **Clint Barton Bingo:** Airvent (B1)
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**
> 
> **WinterHark:** Airvents (B4)
> 
> **❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄ • ❄**


End file.
